After the Super Moon
by Tori.Lars
Summary: While Remus is suffering the after-effects of the super moon, a concerned friend stops by to check on him. Lupin/Tonks get-together fic, a one-shot, not happy ending.


Remus Lupin curled up on his couch. It was a horrible couch. It was itchy and torn, falling apart, but it was his only couch and it worked alright for a nap. He rested his head on the arm and closed his eyes.

He was wearing an old t-shirt he couldn't remember getting and cotton pajama bottoms that fit about twenty-six days out of every month. Tonight, as with every night after a full moon, they were too big. He could have magically altered them to conform to his waist throughout his weight fluctuations, but their added space was comforting—it was a promise that his body would recover, like it always did, and he would be relatively healthy again in just a day or two.

He needed that promise. The transformations were becoming worse as his age progressed. Curled up on the couch, aching and shaking slightly, he doubted he would recover this time, but his pajama bottoms promised he would. And they had never lied to him yet.

The night after a full moon was always the worst one that didn't involve a transformation. His body was still weak enough to sense the barely-waning moon, which would continue to pull at him throughout the night, making him feel like he had a terrible hangover.

A flash of green light and a cracking sound startled him—he jumped and opened his eyes, his heart pounding, even though he figured out what it was before he saw it. His fireplace was suddenly alight with green flames, flickering and giving off a pleasant heat.

"Remus?" a voice asked from the flames. No one was there, but of course he recognized her voice. "Are you there?"

"Yes. Come in." He pushed himself into a seated position as a tall witch with blue hair that hung to her ears stepped through the fireplace. The flames died down behind her and she sat next to him.

She looked as exhausted as he felt. There were dark circles under her eyes and she looked older than her twenty-two years. There was something horribly intimate about seeing her like this—he knew for a fact her Metamorphic abilities could hide things like that, that she could look as well-rested and perfect as she wanted. Choosing to show her true face when they were alone was like seeing her without make-up, and he couldn't help feeling a bit honored.

"Late night?" he asked. He glanced at the clock on his wall and realized he must have dozed for a while—it was almost three in the morning. He needed about twelve hours' more sleep.

"It was awful." She covered her face, rubbed her eyes. "There are three Aurors out just now with injuries—_three_! Kingsley and I both had to pull double shifts." She looked like she wanted to say more, but then her eyes widened and she looked at him, alarmed. "How are you? I was so worried about you last night, that damn super moon."

He smiled. "The super moon does not affect me any worse than a normal full moon." The super moon happened once a year, when the moon was the closest to Earth. It did intensify his transformation, made it harsher and faster, but she didn't need to hear that just then.

"Good. I just wanted to check on you before I headed home. Do you need anything? Got any cuts?"

He refrained from rolling his eyes. One month, she came to check on him and he had a gash across his shoulder that he hadn't been able to heal properly. Since then, she acted like he couldn't take care of himself, despite thirty years of experience saying otherwise. Then he remembered that he did, indeed, have a cut she would be able to heal better than he. He had stopped it bleeding, but couldn't do anything else other than bandage it.

With a resigned sigh, he turned his back on her and lifted his shirt. It was just above his hip, running across the small of his back. Her hand landed gently on his shoulder as she leaned closer to look at it. She drew her wand and muttered spells under her breath. His shoulder tingled, and his back grew warm. He felt the cut stitching up neatly. She was able to heal cuts without leaving scars, which was a welcome ability—Remus's torso and legs were covered with enough already.

The hand on his shoulder started moving, kneading a knot in his muscles.

"You sure that moon wasn't any worse?" she asked between spells. "Sure are tense."

Seeing as she had never touched him before, he didn't know why she would assume he was ever more relaxed than this. He didn't think he could lie to her again, so he didn't answer. He closed his eyes.

After a minute, she set her wand on the coffee table and walked her fingers along his skin where the cut had been, checking her work. He couldn't see her face, but knew her brow was furrowed, eyes narrowed in concentration. He loved how focused and meticulous she could be when something was important to her. Her hand flattened out and rubbed his hip.

"Does it hurt?" she asked quietly.

His hip did hurt. His entire body hurt. He knew she was asking about the cut, though, so it wasn't a lie when he said, "No. Thank you."

He started to turn around, but then both her hands were on his shoulders and she was massaging them through his shirt. He bit his lip. The pressure was a different kind of ache, a good kind that drove the bad kind from his muscles. She had done more than enough for him already, and he knew he should say something like, "You don't have to do that," or "I can't ask you to do that," but the words got lost somewhere in his throat, and when he opened his mouth, a breathy moan escaped.

"Is this okay?" she asked. Her hands moved lower, over his shoulder blades and spine, but the pressure in his shoulders and neck remained—she had used some kind of spell, something to extend the massage, or else had grown two extra hands. He turned his head slightly and looked at his shoulder—there was no hand there, even though he could feel fingers working, so it was a spell.

He meant to say, "No, thank you, but that's enough," but what he actually said was, "Yes," and his voice was raspy and embarrassing. He cleared his throat. "Sorry," he whispered. Sorry for accepting so much help from her, sorry for being so weak he could not object to her aid, sorry for being so affected by her caress. Her hands moved lower again, to the middle of his back, leaving the firm imprint of her touch on his shoulder blades, so it felt like she had six hands on him.

The effect was miraculous. She was strong and clearly knew what she was doing. He had never had a massage like that before. She was erasing his pain as effectively as any potion he had ever taken and his body wouldn't let him refuse her, no matter how much his brain wanted her to stop. He tried and failed to bite back another moan.

When she reached his lower back, his brain finally gave up the fight. It was too much, it felt too remarkable. No part of him wanted her to stop. By then, his breathing was labored and he had an erection—it was too physical, too sensual, to get a different reaction. He didn't know what she expected to happen, but he wanted her.

Her hands went inside his shirt, back up to his ribs, and her hands were hot. His questions were answered when she leaned forward and kissed his jaw line, just under his ear. She trailed back, to his neck, and he dropped his head to give her better access. She kissed up to his hairline and he shivered.

He clasped his hands together, to stop from stroking himself through his pants. He didn't know how long his self-control would hold out, but when she touched his chin and turned his face to hers, he lost it. Their lips collided together and he sat back against the couch, her phantom hands still rubbing, working on his back, and her real hands sliding up his chest, leaving heat like burning coals. Her lips opened and she swallowed his moan. She moved to straddle him.

The kiss broke when she grinded their hips together and he gasped. She moved to kiss the side of his neck, and her hands, her perfect, exhilarating, invigorating hands, moved to his crotch, inside his too big pajamas, and pulled out his erection. She reached up her own robes, fumbled with what he guessed was underwear, and before he could make sense of it, they were shagging. He thrust up inside her, his brain trying and failing to keep up with her frantic pace. She rocked back and forth on his lap, her hot breath in his ear. She squeezed herself around him and he knew he wouldn't last much longer.

He licked his thumb, then reached between them until he found her clitoris. He pressed against it and she yelped, her voice catching. She moved faster, frenzied, and he kept rubbing her clit until she cried out again and her body shivered in an unmistakable orgasm. He felt her clench around him and it was too much—he came inside her with a grunt and she kept moving and he kept rubbing and their orgasms continued until finally he couldn't stand it anymore. He moved his hand and rested it on her hip, stopping her. She collapsed, her arms around his neck. He held her tightly. His brain still hadn't caught up. His back was still being manipulated by her spell.

Panting, he put his forehead against her shoulder.

When he woke up, they hadn't moved. She was sleeping peacefully on his shoulder and they were both sitting up. He was still inside her. The sun was starting to rise, so it had been a few hours. Her spell had worn off, but his pain hadn't returned.

He felt nauseated. She was so young and strong, so bright and talented and healthy and perfect, and he had shagged her. He, an old werewolf who lacked the self-discipline needed to stop his primal urges when he _knew_ they were wrong, ethically, logically. She was an Auror, she worked with the Ministry, and the Ministry hated werewolves. No one could find out what they had done—and it could never happen again.

As worthless as he was, he couldn't even stop himself from hugging her to him. She snuggled closer, her face on his neck, but didn't wake. He needed to move, to separate them, to pull himself together and apologize to her, but he kept holding her.

She had never kept it a secret that she fancied him. But it had been a harmless crush, like a student for a professor, but it wasn't harmless anymore. He had overstepped his boundaries. He hadn't put a stop to it. She deserved so much better than him.

He had kept it a secret that he fancied her, too. Because it was wrong. The professor couldn't fancy a student.

_She is not my student, though_, he reasoned. _She would hate the implication._ But it was feeble attempt to hold on, to make himself feel better. They were equals as friends, but as anything else, she was by far his superior.

He took a deep breath, and slowly laid her down on the couch. She made a slight sound when he pulled out of her, but still didn't wake.

He took a shower, staying in far longer than usual. He braced his hands against the wall and breathed deeply, trying to figure out what he wanted to say to her, how he could explain. A part of him hoped she would be just as horrified by their actions, and there would be no explanation needed. A part of him hoped that—but his entire heart broke at the idea.

He really was worthless.

Distracted by his thoughts and the sound of the water, he didn't hear the door open. He didn't hear her footsteps or notice her silhouette on the curtain. He jumped when she spoke.

"You've been an age. Everything alright?"

"S-sorry," he said hurriedly. He shut off the water and grabbed a towel off the wall, not opening the curtain until it was tied securely around his waist. He didn't look at her as he stepped out of the tub, flushed. He reached for another towel to dry his hair, but her arms went around him from behind and he froze. He could feel her hard nipples through her robes, pressed into his back. One of her hands trailed up his wet chest, and the other went down, reaching for the knot in his towel.

If he didn't act immediately, he would lose any nerve he had, so he forced himself to step away. He turned to look at her, finally, held his hand up between them.

"We can't," he said.

She blinked, then looked at the floor. He could tell by her expression that she was blushing, but no red showed on her cheeks, which meant she was using her Metamorphic abilities to shut him out. His heart broke. He didn't want to lose the platonic intimacy they'd had.

"I am sorry," he said, more quietly. "Last night—should not have happened. I care about you too much to let it happen again."

"How is that caring about me?" she asked defiantly.

Everything he'd come up with in the shower ran out of his mind. Something about age and her job—

"Because I care about you, too," she continued. "I showed you last night, and you seemed into it then."

"I was. But I was not thinking. You are my best friend, and there is no denying that I am attracted to you, but we cannot—be together. You could lose your job if someone found out."

She crossed her arms. "That's a risk I'm willing to take. No one has to find out."

"I will not take that risk," he said firmly. Under her glare, he faltered. "And I cannot risk losing the relationship we already have," he confessed. Her face softened. "You know how relationships work. You know even the best of friends fight and lose each other. I cannot lose you. I cannot. For my own sake, we have to return to what we had. Please."

Tears loomed in her eyes. After the longest thirty seconds of his life, she nodded once and looked away. "Okay," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I'm sorry." Jaw set, she turned and left the room. He heard the front door open and close.

He sat on the side of the tub and covered his face.


End file.
